To Destroy, a Magnetic Flux
by IggySwitzy
Summary: They were like slaves, nothing more than Human scum, but she saw them through the light of crimson eyes and pale hair. A riot is on the horizon, and the imprisonment of a lonely brother will send the palace into chaos. AU, slow burn, rating will go up.
1. Chapter 1

The first time she saw him, the palace was bustling.

* * *

Servants skitter through the halls in long strides, twirling around other busy people yet somehow miraculously managing to not drop a single dish or napkin, nor break any vase. A woman, certainly not of the same class as those poor workers, stays away from the chaos by standing behind a pillar, choosing to watch from the sideline as the laborers hurried to get their jobs done; and yes, jobs, for no servant carried a single burden. They held the responsibilities double the work of ten men, working like slaves for pity money.

A coin here and some gold there will make half of the mass fall to their knees and worship the people of this palace as if they were gods; silent deities controlling by faith, in her opinion. These high councils wouldn't dare lift a finger to defend themselves if it meant getting dirty.

Elizaveta, daughter of the King, frowns in displeasure at the haphazard flood of male and female servants - adorned in crisp white dresses and suits to show their privilege. The status of 'Palace Servant' is supposed to represent class and dignity for those not worthy of it, and she supposes that in some twisted way it does; however, the bleached suits and pearly dresses are mere rags and worn clothes. They shine in the eyes of the scorned to keep them blind. So bright that the lesser people imagine themselves clad in dingy clothing and worthless white, believing that they are wearing the purest and cleanest silk; so bright that the obvious oppression is no longer obvious, and is now a hidden shadow manifesting into the livelihood of sullen people.

She shakes her head to push out those thoughts.

A princess shouldn't think that way, shouldn't recognize the brainwash proposed by her superiors. She is lucky to have been born into such a fine family, the finest of all. The King and Queen are her parents. No siblings or cousins or uncles or aunts to share her riches with. Her only responsibility: ruling the kingdom, but that is far enough away for her not to fret. So why should she worry about things she has no control over? Until then, she should enjoy the many festivals and dinners, especially the one for tonight.

So she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes to calm her nerves, before stepping away from the servant hall and back the direction she came from.

* * *

"G-Gilbert! What are you doing here?" the boy whispers, staring in bewilderment at the teen climbing through his window with an empty sack slung over his shoulder. This doesn't look good, not good at all. Especially by the way his friend is grinning like a wild man. "Seriously," he scowls, "you need to leave."

Grabbing hold of the windowsill, Gilbert swings his lower half through the window before hopping down and crouching to steady himself. It takes a moment to catch his breath, a tense moment of breathless sighs and flinches due to his convulsing friend's looming, and then Gilbert is back to smiling up at him. "Just relax, Mattie, it's not like they can hear me," he assures dismissively while moving to sit on his behind. Damn, his legs hurt.

Before him is a large bedroom adorned in white, lilac, and gold - a simple, elegant flow of gold that is neither boastful nor confident, yet rich in its shine. It spirals out from the doorway at the far side of the room and circles until it reaches the corner of a wall, where it then outlines each edge. Mattie, rather Matthew Williams of Licht, is standing a few feet away, wearing the traditional attire of a Specter: a deep byzantium colored uniform fasten by various buckles, buttons, and straps.

It was just for appearances, though, because how is wearing such a thing practical? At least Gilbert thought so.

Groaning, Matthew rubs his hand down his face in exasperation, letting his surge of emotions resonate through that one simple sound – which coincidentally sounds like an animal giving its last breath of life. Once the noise dies, he bites his bottom lip and places his hands on his hip, frowning. "Who cares if they can't hear you, what if one of them comes in here?" he asks angrily. "Mind you, neither can they hear me."

"So?" Gilbert says.

"So it's quite possible that one of the nobles will walk in at any time!" Matthew exclaims and holds out his arm to emphasize, pointing towards the door as if cueing someone to walk in. But nothing happens, so Gilbert's smirk widens.

Clambering to a stand, the teen fruitlessly brushes the dirt off his ragged clothing and then walks up to Matthew, grabbing him by his shoulders and giving him a little shake. Red eyes brighten against nervous blue. With a deathly serious tone, Gilbert asks, "When did you become… such a stick up?"

A pink flush fades into Matthew's cheeks. "Wha-what?"

"This prude-ness about you," he administrates another shake, "I knew that you were a nervous wreck before but can't I just, I don't know, visit you once in a while?" He says with as much guilt-tripping that he can muster, making sure to keep eye contact with those ever shifting blue ones. Gilbert leans just a bit closer, which is apparently too close since Matthew flinches and wrench himself from Gilbert's loose grip.

The Specter's frown deepens before shifting into a raised eyebrow, lips quirked smugly. Confidentially, he points out, "If you were just here to visit, then why did you bring an empty sack?"

And suddenly the bag feels a lot heavier on Gilbert's shoulder. He glares down at it, mentally tearing apart the already half-torn, worn, and grimy sewn sack. As if sensing Gilbert's displeasure, the sack droops until it is only hanging onto his shoulder by a miracle of gravity. He stares for a while longer, mostly in a pathetic attempt to ignore the question, until Matthew walks up and snatches the bag from him, holding it up to his facing and grunting for his attention.

"Gilbert!"

"Mmmgh," Gil rolls his eyes and huffs. He sheepishly smiles and shrugs, "Happy birthday?"

Matthew waves the sack in front of his friend, causing it to roughly scrape against his cheek and nose. Moving again, Gilbert grabs the end of the sack and yanks it from Matthew's grip. "Is this really necessa-"

"-You came here to steal, didn't you?" He accuses and takes one step forward as Gilbert steps back.

Gilbert holds out his palms in defense. "I wasn't going to take much," he explains, "how un-awesome would that be if I got caught?"

That doesn't appease his friend's anger. "You were planning on stealing from the royal palace. Do you understand how dangerous that is, especially with the dinner tonight? You're risking your life for what? Some scraps of gold, pieces of silver, a few expensive dishes? Gilbert you need you leave." Matthew crosses his arms and stands unbending in his conviction. " _Now._ "

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Gilbert knows that Matthew is right. He shouldn't be here. Sneaking into the palace on a normal day was one thing, but on the day of the annual Specter dinner? It's reckless, irrational, and downright stupid to even fathom. Either he will be spotted by a servant or one of the nobles and the consequences will be severe. They wouldn't even kill him, no; they would place him in the dungeons and torture him for years before giving him the pleasure of death. And Gilbert knows this, he knows. But he has to do this. He has to feed his family and give whatever is left over to those who need it, because if he doesn't no one else will. No one else can. So he has to.

But Matthew doesn't understand.

Sighing in resignation, Gilbert lets down his hands and averts his gaze from the purple suit that is choking his friend. Matthew must be forgetting how life is on the outside. The thought makes his hands clench into fists, flexing muscles irked by the notion of immaculate white and pristine silence consuming one of his only friends.

Swallowing his building anger along with the lump in his throat, he opens his mouth to speak but hears the voice of another.

"You can… If you need to, Gil, you can take from my room."

What?

Piercing red eyes seek out Matthew but his younger is looking away and chewing the inside of his cheek, an expression of defeat and stubbornness on his face. Gilbert stares incredulously at him. Are his ears and eyes playing a trick on him? But Matthew doesn't let up, and soon a wave of relief and warmth washes over him, replacing his anger with joy and Matthew yelps in shock by the way Gilbert slams his body against his in a strong embrace.

Like a captured animal, Matthew grumbles and squirms under him. "Erm, gah – ah, Gilbert?"

"Yes?" he coos and tightens his arms.

"You can get off now…"

Gilbert shakes his head. " _Nein_."

A pair of hands wiggle out from between their compressed bodies and grab Gilbert's shoulders, trying to pry him off. It takes considerable effort from Matthew to remove his personal leech – his leech with red eyes and a beaming, crooked smile – but once Gilbert is off he shakes himself, just for show, to which Gilbert flips him off, and then strides to the opposite end of the room, hand fiddling with the doorknob of a gold-patterned door. He goes to open it, but then hesitates and turns back to Gilbert warily.

"I'm serious Gilbert, only take from me. Think of it as an offering…or presents!" he nods. "Presents, but you can't leave my room. And you need to leave before anyone comes in. If you get caught…" his words hang in the air, too heavy to float so they sink to the ground, nurturing the floor with a promise of dread.

Gilbert tries to wave off his friend's fear with a smile, but he's unsure if it was a grimace or not. "I'll be fine," he assures, "now go so I can get to work. You don't want to see this, Mattie, it's for adults." He ends with a wink and Matthew gives a sad smile before nodding again and stepping out of the room.

The door closes with a heavy thud, echoing the way Gilbert's heart drops.

 _This isn't right,_ he thinks, but doesn't give it the time of day to settle. Matthew is giving him a free card to stea- to take anything valuable in the room, without threat of persecution, and he really doesn't want his friend, or anyone else, to walk in on this so if he's going to scavenge anything, he needs to do it as soon as possible.

Silk sheets and smooth glass, a pale purple tint to the meticulously woven bed spread. Fluffed pillows sit atop it in picture perfect stillness, reminiscent of the silence in the room, the walls, the halls, and the palace. So much motion to be felt yet it is framed in a blitz of unnerving quiet.

His steps create a crescendo of minute noise as he paces the room, filling his bag with stray fabrics, empty vases, and a single jewel necklace made of exemplary rubies and impeccable diamonds. Not a blemish in sight; he is completely surrounded by the epitome of perfection. And here he is, shoving into his filthy sack beautiful items that have never seen a flaw in their long lives.

He is the spot in the room, the sole disgrace in this picture of cleanliness. Garbed in a dull white cloak and battered shirt and pants, he doesn't belong. His boots should leave heinous tread marks on the quintessential floor, but they don't. The floor is resilient against his stomping and it depresses him further.

The sack rustles from the weight of a clock he tossed in there, and Gilbert gives it an experimental jostle to test its strength. Much heavier than before, the sack whines slightly; he waits for another sound, keen to a rip, tear, or strain, but nothing comes, so he ties the strings at the end to keep it sealed before moving it to his other hand, giving his right arm a break.

Satisfaction settles in, but for some reason his legs won't move from where they're planted, and his eyes refuse to focus on the window, instead looking around the room. How can Matthew stay here? It hurts to think about it; nonetheless, Gilbert ponders the question. The question that has roused his thoughts for many nights and days and now he's wondering how his friend, his human-turned-Specter friend, can so easily let go of his past and live in this…this purity.

This fabrication of purity.

Or maybe, just maybe, Matthew hasn't let go of the memories that made him? The proof is in Gilbert's heavy hand and he tears his eyes from the room and to the sack - the full, heavy sack. A smile slowly forms on his lips.

Gilbert turns around with a newfound pep in his step, and heads toward the open window. Cool air brushes his face refreshingly as he slugs the sack over his shoulder and with his other hand grabs hold of the window sill. The wind is still blowing when he leans half of his body outside and prepares to jump, ready to go home and showcase his souvenirs.

And then the bedroom door opens.

Like a deer caught in headlights, Gilbert freezes and stares at the Specter girl staring wide eyed back at him, her lips parted in shock. Her mouth moves as if to make a sound but nothing comes out - nothing can - and a second feels like eternity before Gilbert is scrambling out through the window and falling to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time she saw him, she needed a distraction.

* * *

She likes her bed. It's soft, comfortable, besides the fact that it's warm most of the time – which is mostly dependant on how many blankets she has on it that day but, hey, blankets are a part of her bed. She enjoys her room for its color scheme: an earthly mix of caramel and emerald splashed with minimum shades of blue, red, purple, and, of course, white. It took months of convincing (and punishments) for her parents to finally agree to let her paint her room, preferring their monotonous white over anything individual. Sure, they allowed a few of the nobles staying in the palace to moderately paint their rooms and have festive fabrics and dressers; however, the colors were all pale and only two or three shades off white.

But not hers. She painted her walls with vibrancy unmatched in the entire palace, and prided herself for such a rebellion. She truly loves the room she owns, but certainly not the man who is currently sharing the space with her.

Roderich Edelstein is a Specter of many talents, musically inclined to the master piece of silence and great with clandestine dinners and meetings held behind closed doors. It was only a plus that he wasn't an eyesore, actually being able to capture hearts with a mere glance and smile. Elizaveta found him amusing most of the time, but not in her room. In her room, her safe haven, he broke the dynamic splatter of energetic tenacity she called her own and turned it into guilty defiance.

Taking his birthright and milking it for all its worth, Roderich is as clean-cut as they come. And she doesn't mind it, because it is an appealing quality, though she wished that he wasn't such a static character - that he'd disobey every once in a while and go against the system, or at least entertain the thought of it.

None the less, she realizes that this is wistful thinking, so Elizaveta wiggles against the comfort of her pillow and licks her lips.

They're sitting on her bed, Roderich relaxed and reading some novel while Elizaveta idly kills time by staring at the walls and occasionally her betrothed bed-partner.

If it was her choice she would never have promised to marry someone, not necessarily Roderich in specific; but as it is the choice wasn't hers. Apparently, her parents agreed upon Roderich's promising future and capabilities without her input on even wanting him, and it happened so quickly. What she thought to be an annual dinner a few days ago turned out to be her engagement ceremony – which went terribly since she ended up storming out of the room in anger. And it didn't make since why now, because of that spontaneous ceremony, they had to stay in the same quarters, share the same bed, and just be… _together._

Wetness pricks at the corner of her eye and she wipes it away before it can fall, turning her head to the side to prevent Roderich from noticing, not that he'd bother looking anyway. Frowning, Elizaveta glances at him and scoots closer, shifting her body weight to make the bed dip slightly on his side. She receives no response besides a blink and a page turn.

Glare intensifying, she moves closer until her thigh and his leg are touching, her bare skin against his grey slacks. Roderich makes some kind of bothered expression before sliding about in inch away from her with his eyes expertly trained to his book.

 _Oh, really now?_

It's subtle at first, but soon the air is thick with an invisible, silent weight. A weight that radiates from Elizaveta and seeps into the air, dragging space itself down, before hitting Roderich like a freight train. He flinches, hard, glasses sliding to hang askew on the bridge of his nose and cheeks lighting aflame.

She can feel it too, the weight of her emotions filling the air with transverse waves pulsing in and out; she imagines seeing them loop around the room, blurring the lively colors of her walls, covering every area of empty space, until her safe haven is shrouded in contempt; harmless contempt that is targeting Roderich. She watches him shiver from the onslaught for a moment longer, satisfied to see him actually look at her. Once the moment passes, the waves coil back through the paths they created and leave the air alone – a little heavier than before, but normal enough to ignore.

Elizaveta raises an eyebrow at her fiancé and nudges his shoulder with her fist.

The tsunami hits hard and fast.

A crackle in the air was the only warning she received before Roderich narrowed his eyes and a wave of nausea soared through her body. She buckles under the sickness and clenches her eyes shut as the electrons surrounding her fizzle and swarm, enveloping her in a chaotic cocoon of electromagnetic sensitivity and it _hurts._ So she tries to forge a thin barrier around herself to block out Roderich's annoyed pulses, tries to grit her teeth and will her body to move away from his – gain some distance and maybe the pain will lessen – but her attempts are futile and Roderich knows it.

A ruthless transference that lasts mere seconds, but even after Roderich lets off Elizaveta can still feel her skin buzz. She gulps a mouthful of ionized air. It tastes stale and burnt although she doesn't stop gasping for breath.

Something lands on her shoulder – warm, big, squeezing. Elizaveta swats Roderich's hand away and glares at him, accidentally firing an array of radiation waves at him that makes him grimace and swallow hard but right now, she could care less. He's the intrusion in her peaceful room, the persistent bugging that flips her air upside down and upsets her balance.

Ignoring Roderich's grasp at her arm and questioning – possibly apologetic – waves, Elizaveta slips off the bed and adjusts her nightgown securely before grabbing her shoes and, with more force than necessary, tugging them on. Frowning at nothing in particular, she continues to ignore his insistent wave-poking. If Roderich wants to read his stupid book and not be bothered by his soon-to-be wife, then fine. Have it his way. She doesn't care.

Or at least she tells herself that when he stops sending her pulses as soon as she makes a move to leave the room; because she _didn't_ want his nonviolent attention in the first place.

* * *

"Stupid… flowers… picking… Ludwig… punk…" Gilbert mutters under his breath and growls as yet another thorn stabs his finger, and he'll be damned if that happens again. It's as if the flowers have a personal vendetta against him, especially these _stupid, stupid, stupid_ roses.

Pinching a fully blossomed rose from its vine, Gilbert's frown deepens. He wouldn't have to be out here if it wasn't for Ludwig, his precious little brother who wanted a nice bouquet for his 'sweetheart' Feliciano; 'sweetheart', because, for some annoying reason, Luddy blushes and freaks out whenever anyone acknowledges their more-than-friendship. It's simultaneously adorable and irritating, and since Gil has been given the responsibility of finding this bouquet he isn't going to settle for less.

Which brings him to where he is now: crouching behind a row of large rose bushes, trying to pick them off without inflicting pain on his poor hand, and attempting to get this all done before the palace guards find him.

He delicately shoves a yellow rose into his bag before shuffling a few rows down to his final destination: the white roses. Compared to the previous ones, the three roses he chooses here are a lot easier to pluck and stash, only accidentally stabbing himself twice. Awesome. Mentally checking off 'flowers' from his list, Gilbert peeks around to check for any guards, spotting none, and then stands with a self-satisfied smirk. Patting off some excess dirt and clipping the bag to his waist, he sighs before chuckling, "What an awesome brother I am, kese."

Standing in the midst of tall and wide rose brushes, with vines creeping up the sides of a white fence with gold latches, Gilbert is just a spec among the flowers. Roses, tulips, asters, chrysanthemums, orchids, and various other flowers huddle together in their respective groups, waving gently in the wind as stray petals flutter about.

A cobblestone path runs through the garden, coming to circle around the stone fountain at the center. Carved with care and a flow that suggests life amid a stream of water, the centerpiece of the fountain is a woman with long hair draping down her lower back, eyes closed, oval face, and a simple, pointed nose. She is tilting a fuchsia and white vase over her left half, gently cascading a flow of clear water over her naked hip and legs. Four columns rise opposite her feet and arch well over her head, pouring water like a calm hose over her shoulders and on to the base where it pools around her ankles. The light shining over the water reflects the brilliant colors of the flowers.

Slowly, careful as not to disturb the breathtaking tranquility of her engraved bath, Gilbert approaches the fountain with an outstretched hand before sitting on the edge of the fountain, disregarding the occasional pelt of water on the top of his head and letting his fingers glide over the cool water. His movements cause the water to ripple and gently splash over itself, creating the only noise in the garden.

He looks over his shoulders quickly to make sure the guards are still gone and then, in a moment of haste, dips his hands into the water and leans into the fountain. The second his palms are in the air he buries his face in them and sighs as the cold hits him. It's the shock factor that has him hooked. Crisp water splashes against his face, exciting his nerves, and then stems off to his neck and shoulders. Gilbert's heartbeat quickens and he shakes his head like a drenched dog, blinking hard to clear his eyes.

God, he feels _refreshed._

Twisting his body for a better angle, he starts to scoop handfuls of water and toss it at his face, opening his mouth slightly to let the cool hit his tongue. It tastes nothing like the murky water they serve to servants and humans. It's cool and clear, and has no particular taste that can be explained as anything except pure. Untainted fresh water and he just can't get enough.

So he keeps going, splashing the water on to his face and into his mouth, ignoring the faint sense of guilt at the back of his mind for touching this water with unclean hands; dirty hands that snuck into the Palace of Licht for flowers that he could have gotten anywhere – even if they would have been of lesser quality. But the water is so good, and he may not experience it ever again, so he continues to scarf it down and wash his face.

Too caught up in his indulgence, Gilbert fails to notice the pat of feet coming from behind; the footsteps are heavy at first and then significantly lower when they hit a corner, stopping somewhere behind the white rose bush. Familiar silence settles in again, but this time it is tinged with a heavier feel, circulating through the air from an acute point.

He's wiping off his face when he notices the change. It comes strong and swift, precisely wrapping around him in seconds before he can fully stand. His knees hit the ground first and he grits his teeth, having to hold himself up by his arms now. It doesn't hurt but the pressure keeps on increasing and he's losing mobility quickly as his muscles twitch in shattered attempts to fight whatever is holding him still. Gilbert's arm buckles and his right side slams on to the cobblestone, rock edges scrapping at his skin and he feels a jagged piece nick him. Gilbert curses into the back of his hand. Whoever is doing this is a Specter; it has to be, because he's in the home of the strongest Specters in the kingdom and what was he doing? Stealing roses? Oh, and shoving his face into a fountain that might as well be sacred, with his luck.

Gritting his teeth, he tries to glare at his aggressor but a drop of water falls into his eyes, blurring his vision.

The irony is almost as strong as the bonds securing him to the ground.

"Goddamn it, can you loosen up a bit? I only took a dozen roses!" He shouts and wow, did that sound a lot manlier inside his head. He tries to wiggle against the hold but to no avail. "Seriously, if you could just, I don't know, _loosen_ whatever magnetic wave things you have on me, I promise that everything will go a hell of a lot smoother."

Not waiting for a reply that won't come, Gilbert blinks away the water and narrows his eyes at the guard.

Okay, maybe he didn't get all of the water out. Once more he blinks hard, even shaking his head as much as he can, before lifting his gaze back to the tall guard that he suspects to be the perpetrator; except, his assumption could not have been any farther from the truth.

Instead of an intimidating guard standing in dark armor, he sees a girl, around his age, with a stern frown and crossed arms, pale nightgown hanging just above her knees. Gilbert furrows his eyebrows. There's something familiar about her…

He inwardly pounds the ground with his fists and groans. _Shit, shit, shit, shit,_ he thinks. _It's the girl from Mattie's room._ And really, does she have to look so pissed off at him? But that's a complication to deal with later, because right now his main focus should be on getting out of these bonds.

Whatever waves are holding him begin to hum and vibrate; starting small and escalating quickly, they radiate from the back of his knees, elbows, and abdominals. He tries to fight the sensation but that only causes it to intensify, sparking what feels like electricity at whatever place he attempts to move. Gilbert clenches his jaw to the point of hearing his teeth grind. The waves are constricting and alive, sensing his movements and stopping them before they can begin; he can't move and whatever he tries is met with force.

The girl makes a curling motion with her hand and Gilbert feels himself being thrusted forward, foot stomping down so that he's kneeling on one knee. The vibration around him hums louder, stronger, following the command of the girl. Glaring up at her, he can see a shift in the air around him; slight movements, an abnormal wave that fogs everything in immediate view and urges him to lean towards it - a magnetic field.

The phenomenon is similar to an out-of-body experience, except that he is still looking through his own eyes, witnessing his body move without actually causing the motions. The waves shift and he can feel himself standing in an alien motion, restricting him to rigidity as his arms lower to his sides and his back straighten along with his legs. The sack at his hip feels progressively heavy until it begins to pull against the clip and suddenly snap off, slumping in on itself and spilling an array of vibrant flowers on to the cobblestone.

Gilbert inhales a shaky breath instead of the smug smirk he wanted to display.

The girl, green eyes now wide and expression startled, flinches away and gasps before her eyebrows furrow, staring at the sack and fallen flowers, eyes holding disbelief and scrutiny. Her gaze switches between a disgruntled Gilbert and the flowers, creating a practically visible link between the two. Circling her wrists again in his direction, she takes a step back.

Gilbert clenches his eyes shut. _It's going to hurt. Whatever she's doing is going to hurt and I'm going to die in the royal garden, surrounded by flowers, like a pansy because I wanted to give Luddy the best and that dummkopf doesn't even know and-_

The waves surrounding him dissipate, pulling away and dispersing into the air as Gilbert steps forward on jello legs and gasps cold air. He grabs his chest and heaves while shaking his head; somehow all of the air had rushed out of him and now he can barely breathe.

"What," he gasps, "the absolute… _fuck._ " Oxygen is avoiding him; he knows it, because his lungs can't get enough air to stay filled without spasming and making him cough, just to repeat the process all over again. Gently punching his chest, Gilbert fixes his glare on to the girl. "Happy now?" he snarls.

She doesn't answer, merely looks embarrassed and stuck between calling a guard and patting him on the back.

Despite the waves being gone he can still feel their essence – rather, left over electrons - prickling his skin, so he spends about a minute wiggling his arms and legs, trying to shake off the remnants of their binds. By the time he looks up he's expecting to see either a guard or empty space, but neither is there. The girl, whoever she is, is watching him intently; intrigued.

That brings back the smug smirk from earlier. "What?" he asks while taking a step forward, "Like what you see? Kesese, I know I'm hot." Never mind the fact that his clothes are, per se, less than spectacular. Dirt from crouching on the ground covers his navy colored pants from his knees below, and a thinner consistency scratches his face and arms. Or the fact that he knows she cannot hear him because she is a Specter, although that didn't stop him from talking earlier. Nonetheless, he ignores the grit and silence and grabs his bag from the ground, sweeping the scattered flowers back in.

"Anyways, who the hell are you?" Gilbert says and approaches the girl swiftly, who raises an eyebrow and steps back. The nightgown glows a pale pink in the light shining at an angle, fabric swaying just a bit by her movements. It catches his attention and, without thinking, he goes to touch it but something stops him before he can get too close.

The girl sets her jaw as he tries to poke her arm; static stops his advance. He tries her face: this time the static shocks his finger.

Gilbert pulls his hand back and shoves the tip of his index finger into his mouth with an _"Ow,"_ and grimace. The girl's face lightens with amusement and he can't help but chuckle and send her a deviously half-hearted glare. "You're getting a kick out of this, aren't you?"

Her only response is a quizzical stare; however, the feeling of static goes away with a twirl of her finger.

If he had to admit, the girl is cute – which isn't surprising since she assumingly lives in the royal palace, but her kind of cute doesn't feel… forced. A natural beauty and grace accompanied by friendliness and spunk. And she strangely resembles the statue in the fountain; long hair flowing down her back and curling at the ends, and an oval face; except, there is something off about her.

Wrapping around her ears is a wire that dips into them before spiraling out to coil to the back of her neck. He can't pinpoint where it goes from there, hidden behind her brown hair, but the skin near the wire is a fleshy mix of red, beige, and purple, stretching in tiny vein-like lines before fading. It doesn't belong on her, doesn't fit in with the image that she presents, so why is it there?

Reeled in by the death claws of curiosity, Gilbert reaches a hand to touch her ear, to touch the mysterious wire, to touch _her,_ but as soon as his hand brushes past her shoulder it is met with a searing pain that runs through his fingers and up his arm; burning rapid with electric pulses. He howls and yanks his whole body away from her, clutching his arm to his chest and fiercely trying not to spill tears.

Through a haze of dark agony, he can see the girl with her arms up defensively, a petrified glint in those darkened eyes that pierce into him, chastising yet confused all the same.

He waits for her to make the first move, but it doesn't come. Instead there is silence; unstable, restless silence that dawn upon them, between them and through. He recognizes it, has even made fun of it. It is the silence of a Specter. The silence that has the girl's eyes widening with urgency unexpected.

In the blink of an eye Gilbert feels hands pushing him and the next thing he knows he is running, waves swarming under his feet to give him a boost. "Wait, what?" He asks but the girl is persistent and pushing harder, glancing back as her waves take over and she stops.

It's all a rapid blur: the flowers, the fountain, the stones, just one frenzy until he's being tossed a few feet into the air and latching on to the fence he climbed over much earlier, the sack of flowers clinging on to his hip. Puzzled, he tries to look back but that earns him a slap in the face by icy wind as the waves lift him over the fence and tumbling to the ground. He hits the dirt hard on his shoulder.

Once the boy is out of sight, Elizaveta turns on her heel and wipes off stray dirt from her nightgown just in time for the guard to round the corner of the rose bush, frowning at her in concern. His armor blends in with the shadows, making him hard to spot in the dim light, and even the amplifier in his gauntlet shines a shaded green glow.

 _Princess, are you alright? It is not safe for you to be out alone at night,_ she can feel his waves asking. Strange, they're a lot more subtle than the other guards', probably for stealth reasons – which, unfortunately, means that she needs to be more cautious when she ventures out.

Sneaking one last glance behind her to make sure that the peculiar human is gone, Elizaveta happily approaches the guard and masks it with an apologetic smile. _Sorry, don't know what I was thinking,_ she sends him, _but I'll like to go inside now. Do the honors?_

The guard reciprocates her smile and links their arms together by the elbow. _Of course, my lady._


End file.
